


there is no ignorance, there is knowledge

by purrfectj



Series: The Jedi Code [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Angst, Dark Side feelings, F/M, Smut, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrfectj/pseuds/purrfectj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meditation does not come easily to him, not the kind where a Jedi sits and clears their mind and dreams of warm bare earth or cold grey stone or whatever it is everyone else sees when they close their eyes, center, and ground. It is easier for him in the thick of battle, his 'saber in his hands, the Force a pressure and a weight and a light beating in time with the rush of his blood. Easier for him when they are twined together, unable to tell where she begins and he ends, when her nails rake down his back and his teeth sink into her skin and the Force binds them together in silken threads he can feel but she can not, her belief in luck and her blaster as firm as his belief in the religion he has followed most of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is no ignorance, there is knowledge

She is an insolent, foul-mouthed, double-crossing bitch and he thinks if he gets his hands on her, he will wring her pretty pale neck. 

They have been stranded at this remote outpost on Hoth for nearly a month. It is his wife that has stranded them, the secret, shameful wife he took in fire and fever and blood nearly two years ago and regretted only when she told him to go, unable or unwilling to accept the life he'd already chosen before he'd chosen her. The wife he had not seen since the almost week of their honeymoon until she was being introduced to him by Senator G'kyn as his personal pilot and offered to the new Jedi Sage and the venerated Jedi Guardian to help them carry out their mission for the Council, a shiny new blaster at her hip, the familiar scar under her left eye he's mapped with his tongue, a fully stocked med bay on her ship, and no explanation for where or why or how she'd come back into his orbit. 

“You are pacing, Rogen.” Ranissa's classically lovely face is calm, cool, still water, a toxic green tattooed in black designs to show her acceptance as his Padawan and, later and more recently, her acceptance as a Jedi. Her long, slender fingers are folded into the arms of her robes, her generous mouth as unemotional as the rest of her where she is sitting daintily on the floor, her lavendar eyes closed. There is no judgment in her tone, no chiding, no quick temper, and he rakes a hand through his hair and jerks a shoulder but doesn't stop the measured movement back and forth in the confined space of their shared quarters. 

Meditation does not come easily to him, not the kind where a Jedi sits and clears their mind and dreams of warm bare earth or cold grey stone or whatever it is everyone else sees when they close their eyes, center, and ground. It is easier for him in the thick of battle, his 'saber in his hands, the Force a pressure and a weight and a light beating in time with the rush of his blood. Easier for him when they are twined together, unable to tell where she begins and he ends, when her nails rake down his back and his teeth sink into her skin and the Force binds them together in silken threads he can feel but she can not, her belief in luck and her blaster as firm as his belief in the religion he has followed most of his life. But there is nothing else to do on this desolate backwater planet, their mission long-since completed, and so he sinks to the floor by his cot, lays his hands, palms up, on his thighs, closes his eyes, and tries to think of anything other than the taste of her, musky and sweet and spicy. 

He will not remember how on their wedding night he sipped the disgusting amber liquid she prefers from her prettily bowed lips, the spirit as darkly pleasing on his tongue as the slippery glide of his fingers between her thighs. He will not remember licking and sucking and biting the pouting tips of her breasts until she was squirming and burying her fingers in his curls, until she was begging him to be part of her, inside of her, to fill the ache for both of them, the ache of loneliness and pain and desire. He will not remember sinking into the scalding wet heat of her body again and again until he forgot her name, his name, the promises he made to himself and his Order, pleasure a supernova that burned bright and hot with hair as red as a Sith's blade. 

His hands clench into fists, white-knuckled, his nails scoring his palms until he can feel blood filling the half-moons, the pain grounding him in a way that he knows is strictly forbidden and seductive. 

The Force has a wicked, unnatural ability to make him feel ashamed. 

“She will return when she is ready,” Ranissa says serenely and he knows that to be truth for the woman he gave his name, a name that wasn't his to give, answers to herself first, her allegiance and her moral compass slippery things, not easily grasped by someone like himself, chained to duty and honor. 

The knock on the door is cursory, for form only, and he knows it's her before the door slides open at his impatient hand motion. She is wearing a new overcoat, brown, form-fitting, belted tightly around her trim waist, flowing over her round hips and the breasts he knows are almost more than a handful for his wide-palmed hands, her smirk self-satisfied and cocky as she steps into the room. “Miss me?” she asks in her husky voice and he is on his feet and has her shoved back against the wall before she can blink, her smirk spreading into a round O of pleasure when he uses the Force to stretch her arms high over her head. 

His former Padawan inclines her head to them both as she glides out the door and his smuggler mutters something unintelligible and uncomplimentary as his mouth closes over hers and for long moments it is only the sound of buckles and zips and ties being undone, the harsh gasps for breath and sharp moans he can draw from her with the lightest touch of his fingers on her skin, that fill the small space. He turns her away from him once she's bare, his palm flat on her spine, her hands braced on the unforgiving metal of the door that he's closed and locked with a thought, and when he shoves inside of her, his hips slapping against the round, perfect shape of her ass, she says his name, breathlessly, and he nearly spills before they've even begun. Unable to admit she has him so on edge, that he needs her so, he makes her come with his fingers and his mouth and his cock before he ever takes his own pleasure, her voice hoarse from shouting, his own orgasm silent and shuddering and nearly painful in its intensity. 

“You ever gonna fuck me in a bed?” she asks lazily later, drawing patterns on his skin with her callused, small hands, and he buries his nose in the messy tangles of her hair and doesn't answer because it's true, he's never actually been inside her while they're in a bed, it's been against the wall, on the floor, in the refresher, once in the backroom of a seedy cantina where he used the folds of his robe and the flowing slave girl skirt she was wearing to hide how he was thrusting up into her from below, lazy and slow and deep. 

Her sigh stirs the unruly black hair he needs to cut and she presses a soft, tender kiss to the thin, sensitive skin under his jaw and he's suddenly, unreasonably angry with her, this curvy, treacherous, beautiful woman who makes him forget who he is every time, who has him questioning everything he's held dear for his entire life, the lack of fear, regret, anger, jealousy, and rage, terrified that the next time she slips under his guard he'll let her stay, let her burrow deeper and deeper under his skin until he's reckless and needy, begging at her feet. 

Her little giggle when he forces her over onto her back, when he lifts her legs over his shoulders and thrusts deep into the tight, welcoming openness between her legs has him grinding down almost cruelly and this time the sounds she makes are a gasp and a groan, her restless hands on his shoulders, on his chest, curling around the straining muscles of his arms as he pumps in and out of her, this woman he married because he wanted to belong to her, needed to have her belong to him, wild and impulsive and all of the things she can be that he can't, free in a way he has never been. 

He shudders as she tightens around him, as she slips clever fingers between them and touches herself, stroking his tight, aching skin as she circles her clit, as she comes around him, her head thrown back, her cry exultant. 

Rogen empties into the wife he took because he could do nothing else but love her despite, or maybe because, he has taken an oath. He is a Jedi and it is an oath he will break, bend, shatter, abjure every time she stumbles into his life, again and again until there are no stars left in the sky and no breath left in his body, until she lies broken and trembling beneath him. 

His fingertips find the little bump of the skin on her left shoulder where the implant rests, the implant that will keep his seed from taking root in her body, from making a child that neither of them can have, can keep, can love. He rubs the little bump with his thumb and thinks _Break._


End file.
